"stillborn" poems
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.
O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.
They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.
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I’ve finally stopped
writing
unrequited letters;
there were too many
wasted breaths
left unsent
Lapsing intentions
befallen on timeworn
tawny crumpled pages;
aging like spent flowers
in fading earth tones
and rumpled paper regrets
Multi-hued words uttered—
mummers of voiceless exhalations
spoken without a sound;
indelible spilled ink
left behind,
lays fallow for so long
A love once new, and
a growing silent ache—
a hungry heart
left for dead—Déjà vu
We leave a lot behind,
fallen leaves in unspoken ink
a restless soul laid bare
by a passing moment's
random gust;
atrophied
like unwritten poetry
stifled stillborn
in a wadded up paper lament
jesse stillwater ... July 2018
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
and by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
he said to me, "You must not ask for so much."
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
she cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
Oh like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
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You're my stillborn butterfly
afraid of your new beauty
with limp wings,
pried from the safety of your cocoon
by my old hands
in a forest where everything
is charred.
Only the skeletal trees
once lush with life and birdsong
can admire your strange elegance
as you lay listless on their roots
that thirst for a storm of passing love
and thunder.
I want to carry you away
to my field of wildflowers
and resurrect you with the unmasked glow
of the shy moon, who only shows its face
in this meadow of lies.
I'll watch the breeze wake you on my fingertips
then let you fly away, carelessly
into a world of color
I'll never compare to.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference
through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings
my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems
funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission
I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice
my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
Selene.
By the sea, I have been staring,
at your bright colours change.
Erythematous, murderous intentions of
a disease disseminating
on your surface.
The slow, penetrating anguish
tearing the guts,
a one-sided, disdained,
newborn sadness,
I am welcoming in my arms.
On the operating theatre of life
white and now dead moths,
stillborn butterflies
inside the flesh removed,
drowned themselves in a pool of blood.
They, an absurd joy
that never stood a chance
inside this cyanide prison.
Portals of loaned,
disillusioned happiness closed.
The liquid that raced turbulently
through my vessels, drained on a half-filled
with tears palette.
With menacing, impasto knife-like strokes
on the body
Morpheus painted the shadow-covered moon
with memories that refuse to be forgotten
from purulent, open wounds.
'Those worlds you will (never) see.
The people you will (never) meet' he said.
Soul chemicals eroding
the behemoth sky,
as the paint dries out.
Ashes of my Dreams (Not) Achieved,
astral remains;
everything I silently kept inside.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
I am the barbed thorn
the serrated reward
facing savage cruel winter;
sedition in transmission.
I am the only pawn
on your chequered board
facing a feisty queen;
of restricting submission.
I am the demonic exon
a heraldic discord
facing bleak futures;
an inherent disposition.
I am the stillborn reborn
the aberration restored
facing anomalies instability;
violation on a mission.
I am broken and worn
a fallen sword
facing a grim battle;
outnumbered by division.
I am the brass horn
the out of tune chord
facing orchestral expulsion;
a musician in remission.
I am history's forewarn
the contrite accord ignored
facing penitent absolution;
clemency in transition.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
veracity,
faulty.
it's hard to tell who your friends are
at the bottom of the ocean.
sand grains. black, white.
everyone is blind.
jellyfish are wolfish
at the bottom of the ocean.
spoken sounds sting.
starfish are spearfish-
one might hear a feather drop,
one might hear a pin drop,
noiseless word string.
beneath;
sky, rise up.
the bottle forlorn.
willowy hair will stay strong,
while the luminous
go on stillborn.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 10:48 PM UTC
The hour which might have been yet might not be,
Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore
Yet whereof life was barren,—on what shore
Bides it the breaking of Time’s weary sea?
Bondchild of all consummate joys set free,
It somewhere sighs and serves, and mute before
The house of Love, hears through the echoing door
His hours elect in choral consonancy.
But lo! what wedded souls now hand in hand
Together tread at last the immortal strand
With eyes where burning memory lights love home?
Lo! how the little outcast hour has turned
And leaped to them and in their faces yearned: —
‘I am your child: O parents, ye have come!’
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Lazily, a boy with silvery hairs muttering requiem aeternam
lifts his neck at the piercing radiance skimming off the eyeglasses rim,
and there looms the glory, the spotless sea of blue,
varnishes of spring gloss fuming out of the French coronation robe.
The still-brisk branches hung bent at the weight of vivacity,
sight of maidens whose eyes and grace bath in the full warmth of light,
the kisses on the face of the river by the shower of half-bloomed petals,
just as the stillborn thrills of the beating heart to the splintered fingers of Moirae.
The time of adieu,
the season of life.
The mourning procession amidst the lustily caressing May breeze.
-Primavera, thou name be the sweet irony of the dying flowers
The evening wades in, and the coy face of the mountain blushes;
Thence strides away the man whose gaze speaks of premature nostalgia
Here the wind whispers the rosy delirium from the sakura tree at the far side,
the faintness lushly hazed away by the cloudy veil of bittersweet grey.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 7:13 AM UTC
After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls
After Midnight
The bugles will blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know
After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
All tales to reflect
After Midnight
The ticking won’t stop
After Midnight
The bottom has topped
After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known
After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege
After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Last palate uncleft
After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
A star for the dunce
After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell
After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals
After Midnight
The plain and the slack
After Midnight
There’s no turning back
After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn
After Midnight
The wheels bend and turn
After Midnight
Lost vision relearns
After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn
After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow
After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
—new eyes that believe
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
If reached beside the pearly cradled rose
therein a rattling joy; o' stillborn child.
What uttered mine - unsaid angelic prose,
should passing lay my husk and essence wild?
Awaiting yonder womb were tepid wings;
inflamed with bonding warmth of kinship love,
like softly feathered pads and rocking swings
then ardent glows, as seen and known above.
The wailing babe is music sung and sought,
for more a sleepless dusk - had since apart.
For eyes which never opened wide were wrought
and taken here and strolled in golden cart.
Should words in amber fail and infant pine,
behold the spectrums soul, the same as mine.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
I pledge allegiance
to all the stones in the road
that have given me succor,
to every poet-of-anywhere
who greets me
with wetted, parted lips and open heart,
who greets the sun-rays shared, inching,
opening o'er my yet living,
praying body, reminding me
that I am alive,
that I am warm
that I feel poetry in, on,
cells, all over, deep in my extremities
Most importantly, in my busted heart,
where warmth is stored in a soul restored,
and Life affirmed,
For who knows how
many more times
I will know this,
How many more times
I will able compose this,
Play "measure the future''
in seconds or years and
grimaced smiles over tears,
or just one or the other,
that be willed to supersede;
Will keep you posted
in every realized and many some stillborn poem,
rising with the grand entrance of morn skies,
or perhaps, lies buried neath in each horizon's cemetarial,
and
even those,
that straddle a confusing and confused moon,
of a twenty fours hours existence,
be shoulder-borne,
bathed in
combinatorial equatorial
moon & sun light,
so we can bathe, like Bathsheba (1)
by both,
and delight
at the exact same moment's portent,
no matter,
the disregarded, discarded,
why
we are
who we are
when pledge and plead
allegiance to those eyes that read our scrivenings
nml
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 11:57 AM UTC
Planks, splintering in solidity
Together twined in tedium
Curving cords of mated metal
Lost in ludicrous loops
Twines of tetanus protrude
Danger danger
Rising flying roaring floating
Above the stillborn trains
Arching acrid aerial arms
Lazy concrete spiral, neighbor snail
Inverse slide with railings
Rumble rumble try and grumble
Jitter in jumpy juxtaposition
Guts of grotesque giants
Flayed flawed under flaming flight
Blink away oblivion
Orange and omnificent, opaque concern
Useful hangnail, table scraps
Rise above
Shocked stillness soon stumbling
Ornamental oasis for the oracles
Unseen unheard untasted unsmelled
Unfeeling unused to understanding
Carry me across
Fly me over
Lift me beyond
Suspend.
Glimpse the unparalleled phenomenon
Ribs of steel, rain has parted
Seeping to the soul
Buzzing through the boards
Immobile, cradle in the wind
Twist
Take off your sunglasses
Be sure to look around as you pass through
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 10:30 PM UTC
After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls
After Midnight
Last bugle to blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know
After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
Old tales to reflect
After Midnight
The ticking will stop
After Midnight
The bottom will top
After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known
After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege
After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Lost palates are cleft
After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
Two stars for the dunce
After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell
After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals
After Midnight
That voice in the back
After Midnight
There’s no turning back
After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn
After Midnight
The wheels bend and churn
After Midnight
Lost vision returns
After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn
After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow
After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
—creation redeemed
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
Keep your nose to the grindstone
echo and boom.
Tucked in shirt and buttoned blue collars.
Coffee, no milk, no sugar.
Pagans in a pageant
lifting slabs with slack hands.
Old muscles knotted and torn
a drone sound, stillborn as the childless playground.
Mocking and mundane
the bell rings and shatters the silence
leaving tools on the floor and empty parking spaces.
Nothing left but the weep of pigeons in the rafters
and the breeze that arrives
only after the workers departure.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC
A strange kind of intrusive ambiance; voices in several languages, forced laughter, technological functioning; human activity intermarried with machines. The volume rising perfectly in sync with my cortisol levels, I interrogate my past for signs of the path that led me here; it remains blurred. I did not dream of working in customer service; but here I am regardless, moments of my life that I will never ponder again; a cascade of the present moment repeating as long as my employment contract exists. An event-less horizon, memories are stillborn here and true ingenuity stifled. There is much and nothing that has led me here. It is hard not to feel like a horse bred for performance in this place; everything is monitored, quantified, reviewed and collaborated. Performance reports produced with the fervor of medieval scholars translating the bible. I look to the sky, what else is there to do; only to see smoke alarms and aesthetically neutral lighting arrangements. There is art work on the walls, but is generic, created to defy analysis. The colouring of the walls is chosen to exude a neutral sort of trendiness; on brand for the overarching corporate image.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
I reach to feel your lips
But the net of night discerns
So I adore your cheek
My hand at your side
Strives to pull you in
Like the moon
That drags the waves nearby
Your words to me so soft
They rival a subtle breeze
As your eyes unveil the stars
To display them for the first time
I want to say, "I love you"
And cut the Heaven's floor
But I know time will not come swift
So I will cast my stillborn heart
Until the day we meet again
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
If laughter is the best medicine
then this explains why there are so many unhealthy people.
Too many people got the SAD's Condition;
**It arrives usually within 2-4 weeks of compromising one's inner child after crushing up
some sparkly dreams and flushing them in the *******
Symptoms include:
*1) A black-hole bitter disposition
2) Snapping at little things like having to wait 5 in a checkout line
or making dramatic sighs after repeating a question a few times.
3) Reminiscing about terrible things and never forgiving and
letting go, like having your mom sign your life away to a cult or
being told that your dear sweet Aunt who helped raise you kept
looking for you in the hospital every time your name was called
even though you never saw her because your family thought it
best you kept your distance or hearing the morose silence of a
stillborn newborn.
4) Finding your serenity at the bottom of a bar room floor inside a
gin bottle.
5) Finding your solace in a married woman who eats all kinds
of colorful shaped pills for breakfast.*
And if a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
how much can you add before the medicine loses its flavor?
They say truth is bitter,
yet I find that hard to believe
considering it feels so good to say.
It's like a cinnamon peppermint flavor on the tongue
with an aftertaste of jalapeno tears.
Maybe I'm so used to the processed hydrogenated extra sugar kind
that's why I go right for the pure hard stuff,
and maybe that's why a laugh so much.
Maybe that's why people consider me a cuckoo fool....
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something
i should already know.
and when she says it,
the shift inside me is something i wish i could compare
to the grinding of tectonic plates,
if only i were strong enough to bring about an earthquake.
but since i am a stranger even to aftershocks,
i keep quiet.
my earthquake is stillborn,
expressed instead as a nod,
as a chewing of the lip,
as a silent, compliant “mhm.”
and the urge that nestles itself at the pit of my stomach
is not an urge to disagree;
it is an urge to forget.
because my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something i should already know,
and she says it in a way that is not meant to make me feel incomplete,
but it is a way that still does,
and if i can forget this,
even for a moment,
i can forget that i am not okay.
i do not like not being okay;
i do not like having problems,
and my psychiatrist,
she tells me i have holes in me and she says it
as though it is a problem.
and so begins a slow disintegration:
i become but a bearer of problems,
a garden growing only weeds —
something in need of fixing.
i see myself a war-torn landscape,
dry and cracked and lacking life.
i see myself the kind of ground you step on and say,
“remember when things used to grow here?
remember when it used to be green?”
i am still trying to be green,
always trying to be green,
but my psychiatrist tells me
i have holes in me,
and suddenly green becomes a color i will never know how to paint.
outside my psychiatrist’s office,
on the wall of the waiting room,
there is a painting of flowers —
irises and a geranium —
and the leaves, i know, are supposed to be green,
but the paint is old and faded
and they don’t look it.
and for a moment,
i think
that maybe,
whether iris
or geranium
or boy riddled with holes,
maybe it is possible to bloom
even if you are not green.
(a.m.)
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Tingly under the daisies;
Glassy-eyed, glazed, greasy;
Shaking, shivering, shuddering,
Wishing, wandering, whimpering,
Westernizing—
Romanizing—
Constitutionalizing—
Institutionalizing—
Perpetually searching
And dying
And living,
Watching Death survive
And scythe the frolickers,
The prancers,
The rompers,
The merrymakers.
A rose clamped between his
Grinning teeth glistens brightly,
And he dances so joyously.
“Yes!” say the naysayers,
Confused are the soothsayers,
Lost are the cartographers.
Oh, Utopia!
The monks are extravagant;
The meditations are a farce!
The preachers are beggars
And swindlers and chargers,
And Machiavelli fulfills his wishes!
Babies are stillborn, stabbed, and
Ritualistically sacrificed,
And their blood is spilled, drunk,
Slathered over the ***** man.
The evangelists scream and lie:
“You are all predestined to die!”
Oh, hail Utopia!
Wedded are the girls to the girls;
Wedded are the boys to the boys;
Wedded is Death to Death,
Life to Life,
And Life to Death.
Wedded are the living to the existent.
And the milking babes are slaughtered
Ceremoniously,
Surreptitiously,
Ostentatiously.
Oh, hail great Utopia!
We are all dead and unintelligent:
Laugh, laugh, Einstein, at your
Stupidity.
Laugh, laugh, Temple Grandin at
Your retardation.
Laugh, laugh, laugh!
Look at the sluggard, thou ant;
Look at the boy, sobbing wolf;
Aesop was drunk,
Aristotle was delusional,
Michelangelo was blind,
Beethoven could hear,
Poe was sane.
And I can't read.
They ramble,
I watch.
They sleep,
I watch.
They dream,
I watch.
They sleep-talk,
I watch.
They scream,
I watch.
They choke,
I watch.
They suffocate,
I watch.
Stone-faced, I stare;
Raspingly, I breathe;
Uncontrollably, I twitch;
Inwardly, I rage.
I hope you die, I hope you die.
I hope you bleed, I hope you die.
I want you begging and crying,
I want you blubbering at my feet,
I want you gnashing at my ankles,
I want you writhing in pain,
I want your arm twisted off,
Cracking with the snapping sinews, I want your beating heart in my hands, I want your genitals uprooted and stuffed in your throat, I want your stomach so I can eat the still-digesting food, I want your shrunken head and I want to force my thumbs into your unblinking eyes and I want to tear your face in two and I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, I want you to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die and die.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
He despaired of it,
That the only innocence
Lay in the stillborn.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
each night in bed
wrestling with the moon
and my sheets
i write poems in my head
intellectual one night stands
forgotten in the morning
just words whispered away
in the cool breeze of the AC
before i fall asleep
these are my favourites
the stillborn prose
my own dark harvest
lingering like a sweet hangover
of imploding thoughts
they are mine now
gone in the dark
lost forever in my head
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC